Remembering 1942

by Liu Zhenyun

  Chief, who never dreamed of carting droppings, was heading to the drilling ground with his rifle. He was so happy he couldn’t keep the smile off his face when he heard the order from the squad leader; putting his rifle aside, he smoothed down his uniform and took a look at himself in the mirror before running off cheerfully to cart sheep droppings, a job meant for a key cadre. When he returned at the end of the day, he was covered in dirt, with bits of dry droppings in his brows and hair. Still in high spirits, he splashed cold water over his face as he said, “The company leader said we’d go back in two days.”

  He washed his leather cap before putting it next to the heater to dry, when the whistle sounded for an emergency roll call. That threw him into a panic. The platoon leader blew his top when he stormed in and saw the wet cap.

  “Time for a roll call. Did you think you could avoid it by wetting your cap? I don’t care how but you have to dry it right now. Or come outside with it wet.”

  Poor Chief had to stand in the wind wearing his wet cap, which was covered in ice when roll call was over. But we weren’t done yet, for another roll call in the platoon followed. The platoon leader launched into a speech, adding that a certain comrade had no sense of order and discipline, making his cap wet before roll call. Everyone turned to look at Chief, who stood still.

  Chief disappeared after roll call. I found him sitting motionlessly in a windy spot behind the barracks, still wearing his cap. I thought he was crying and went up to nudge him. But he wasn’t; he just looked up at me.

  “Take off your cap, Chief. It’s frozen stiff,” I said.

  “How could I be so stupid?” he cried out repeatedly.

  “It’s not your fault. You were carting sheep droppings earlier today.”

  “I’m just stupid, Banfu.” He was sobbing now.

  “No, you’re not. No one could have anticipated the roll call.”

  He stopped sobbing long enough to tell me that he received a letter from his father that day. Someone had written it for his father, who told him to work hard in the army. “Now see what I did today,” he said.

  “It’s nothing. Everyone stumbles. You just have to get up, that’s all.”

  He nodded.

  He handed our squad leader another pledge the next morning, saying the ideological origin of the wet cap was his lack of order and discipline. He had stumbled, but he was resolved to get up and start over.

  3

  We were told to fall in during one of our drills. A senior officer was coming for an inspection and all squads were to stop regular drills to focus on formations. We were keyed up by the news, since we had yet to see a ranking officer. We couldn’t stop whispering among ourselves. How senior was he? Could he be a regiment commander? When I stood sentry with the squad leader that night, I asked him. He told me it was a military secret, which led me to suspect that he had no idea either.

  After two weeks of formation training, we were notified that the inspection would take place the next day, with the added information that it was not a regiment commander nor a division commander, but an army commander. The barracks erupted excitedly. An army commander coming for an inspection! Some soldiers were about to sit down and write a letter home about the good news. Even our squad leader couldn’t hide his excitement as he regaled us with a description of the army commander. Reminding us not to cough during the inspection, he made a rearrangement of the formation and assigned us new positions. When that was done, we cleaned our rifles and shined our bayonets.

  Lights-out sounded shortly after eight; we were to go to bed early, get a good night’s sleep, and wake up energized. But how could anyone sleep? Finally we dozed off, but soon we were awakened by a whistle.

  “Another emergency muster?” Chief blurted out.

  Thrown off balance, no one dared to turn on the light as we began to get dressed and collect our backpacks.

  “An army commander is coming for an inspection tomorrow, so why are we falling in now?” some grumbled, echoing everyone’s sentiment.

  The company commander came in and snapped the light on. We weren’t to fall in. We were to head over to the mess hall for an early breakfast, after which we would line up to board a truck. We were to reach the reviewing ground by eight.

  We breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I never thought we were supposed to fall in,” a wiseass said.

  Excitement returned, but it was still pitch-black outside.

  Blood-red cloud clusters appeared in the eastern sky, a typical desert sunrise; we waited for the sun to roll out from behind the crimson sea of clouds, completely unprotected. It was nearly twenty below zero, but the cold didn’t bother us, as we stood packed on the truck bed. The driver seemed to have been infected with our excitement as well, for he tore down the road like a whirlwind; when we drove over a ditch, we went Aah as we bounced up and down, holding our rifles in our arms with their well-oiled bayonets attached.

  Finally we arrived at the reviewing ground. Oh, my! We weren’t the only company to be inspected. The grounds were crowded with tens of thousands of soldiers going in all directions, looking for their designated spots.

  “How many are there?” I asked our squad leader.

  Shielding his eyes with his hand, he looked around.

  “I’d say enough to make a division.”

  The sound of gathering soldiers was deafening as they kicked up enough dust to blot out the sky. But we took extra care of our bayonets, making sure they were dust-free. Our company commander, a pistol on his hip, was running around shouting, “Keep up the pace. Close up ranks.”

  We pressed up closer to each other and marched forward.

  By seven thirty, nearly all the squads had found their spots. The area quieted down, with fewer feet moving about and fewer orders from their commanding officers. But that was quickly replaced by soldiers talking among themselves, some about what was happening that day, some about the reviewing stand. There were still others who were from the same hometown leaving their ranks to greet each other, since they seldom got to meet. To be expected, their platoon or company leaders yelled for them to return to their ranks.

  Suddenly silence fell. Someone appeared on the reviewing stand; looking like a staff officer, he faced the microphone and announced the reviewing procedure. When the army commander walks by and says, “You comrades have worked hard,” we must respond in unison, “The commander works hard.”

  “Have you all got that?”

  “Yes!” we shouted in unison.

  Then he told us to check our weapons, which immediately submerged the area in the deafening noise of soldiers checking their rifle bolts.

  That was followed by closing up ranks, with the leader at each level reporting when it was done: after a company checked its soldiers, the company commander reported to the battalion, the battalion to the regiment, and from the regiment to the reviewing stand. The sound of crisp reports rose and fell.

  Silence fell again when that was done, as a gray-headed old man appeared on the stand and swept his eyes over the soldiers.

  “Who’s that?” I quietly poked at our squad leader.

  “The division commander.”

  At seven fifty, the old man looked at his watch and began calling out adjustments to the formations. It was awesome to see an old man call out the commands in a thick, gravelly voice: “Attention!” “At ease.” We stood on tiptoes looking right and left to square up and create a perfect formation even with thousands of soldiers. It looked perfect from every angle, an orderly and magnificent array of troops. The grounds were so quiet that only the sound of army flags flapping in the cold air was audible.

  It was 0800, time for the army commander to appear.

  Time ticked away, and fifteen minutes elapsed, but no sign of the army commander. The division commander kept checking his watch up on the stand, while down below the soldiers were getting restless.

  “Could he have forgotten about the inspection?” Fatty ventured a guess.

 
“Not likely. Maybe he’s been detained,” Chief said.

  We were on edge as another fifteen minutes went by.

  “I guess there’ll be no inspection today,” Wang Di said.

  Before he finished, a motorcade of long, black sedans, shining brightly under the sun, emerged at the far end of the main road.

  “He’s here!”

  We perked up. The area buzzed excitedly, but quickly quieted down again, so quiet this time we could have heard a pin drop. We heard the sound of car doors opening and saw people emerging from the vehicles. Among them were several heavyset old men, a few young ones, and a female soldier so beautiful she reminded me of a flower. The old men stood with their hands behind them while the younger men spread out and looked all around. The division commander, who was still up on the reviewing stand, nervously smoothed his uniform before turning to the soldiers down below.

  “Listen up. Attention—”

  “Eyes to the right—”

  “Eyes forward—”

  “At ease—”

  “Attention!”

  His voice cracked with the last shout as he put everything he had into it. Then he ran off the stand and saluted one of the old men who had just arrived.

  “Army Chief of Staff, we await your command.”

  “At ease.”

  “Yes, sir.” The division commander ran back up onto the reviewing stand, panting hard as he went.

  “At ease,” he shouted.

  And we did.

  The chief of staff made his laborious way up to the reviewing stand, where he stopped to look at the soldiers.

  “Comrades.”

  We snapped to attention, sending the sounds of our clicking heels echoing across the grounds.

  “At ease,” he said. “Today the army commander will conduct a review and I hope you will all …” He jogged down the stand to report to another old man with sagging jowls and bags under his eyes.

  “The troops await your inspection.”

  “Good, very good.” The old man smiled, making the bags under his eyes quiver.

  The reviewing commenced formally, though in fact it was just him walking past the ranks. We were, naturally, happy to see him walk by and we stood stock-still, our eyes fixed on a spot straight ahead. Row upon row of bayonets glinted impressively in the sunlight. We had melted into a collective and become part of the reviewing grounds itself. The commander seemed affected by the gravity of the occasion as he raised his hand to his cap. To me, however, he seemed not to know how to salute, for his hand was at a crooked angle; I noticed a sparkle in his eyes. Halfway through the review he said, “How’s everyone, comrades?”

  We panicked, because his greeting was different from the way we’d been briefed. We quickly recovered and shouted at the top of our lungs, “How do you do, sir!”

  That sounded orderly enough to put our minds at ease, all but Fatty, who stuck to “The Commander has also worked hard.” We heard him, but luckily, his was the only voice and the commander likely didn’t hear him. Our company commander heard it, though, and shot Fatty an angry look.

  Soon the commander arrived before our regiment. Holding our rifles at present arms, we made three, loud snapping sounds against the stocks as we moved to order arms. It was beautiful. But Chief had a mishap, scratching his forehead with the tip of his bayonet during the drill. Blood trickled down his face. Few people noticed what had happened and he didn’t make a sound or move. The commander, however, was sharp-eyed enough to see and stopped to walk up to Chief. Knowing he was in trouble, Chief remained motionless. The commander stared at the blood on his face.

  “Who’s his company commander?” he asked.

  “Me, sir.” Our company commander ran over and snapped off a salute. He was scared witless by the sight and that sent a fright through the rest of us. The commander was going to give us hell, we were sure, and our squad leader glared at Chief, barely able to contain his anger. To everyone’s surprise, the commander smiled as he patted Chief on the shoulder.

  “This is a good solider,” he said to our company commander.

  We breathed a sigh a relief. Chief was elated, while our company commander gave a spirited salute and said, “Yes, sir. He is a good soldier, sir.”

  The commander mumbled a response, nodded, and waved at someone behind him. The flower-like female soldier came up and dressed the wound on Chief’s head, revealing to us her identity as the commander’s personal physician. Chief was so moved the corners of his mouth wouldn’t stop twitching; tears slid down his face and merged with the blood.

  We dispersed when the army commander finished with the review, and, singing a military march, marched in formation to the trucks for our respective barracks. The commander stood up there the whole time watching us.

  An overview of our performance got under way the moment we returned to our barracks. Fatty was severely criticized for saying the wrong thing while Chief was commended for remaining motionless with a head wound. We were told to emulate him. A squad meeting followed, during which a change of key cadre was conducted to switch Chief with Fatty. After they changed sleeping spots, Fatty threw himself down on his new bunk and cried.

  “What are you crying about?” The squad leader was unhappy. “You think this isn’t called for?”

  Fatty sat up and dried his eyes, fully aware of the implication of his behavior.

  Chief, on the other hand, was beside himself with joy, as he sprawled on his bunk by the door to write a letter home. Wang Di walked up and turned Chief’s head to check his bandage.

  “Dumb people have dumb luck, as they say.”

  At lights out that night, I lay on my bunk and recalled the day’s events. The army commander looked like a decent man. So, the higher the rank, the more a commander cares about the soldiers, I said to myself. Some time around midnight, I got up to use the toilet and ran into the platoon leader.

  “Pretty impressive today.” I tried some small talk.

  “It was no big deal.” The man buttoned his fly with a look of indifference typical of a veteran soldier.

  “The army commander really cares about the soldiers,” I added as we walked out.

  I was surprised to hear him snort as he walked away.

  “You have no idea,” he turned to say. “The man’s a real bastard. No one knows how many nurses he got his hands on at the hospital.”

  I froze. It took me a while to recover and return to the barracks, but I tossed and turned, unable to go back to sleep. I didn’t believe what the platoon leader had said. How could a nice old man like that be a bastard? How could that impressive spectacle end this way? I was so disappointed I nearly cried.

  4

  A round of political study started to criticize Lin Biao and Confucius. Our squad leader received a telegram informing him that his father had died, so he packed up and left for home.

  Without a leader, our squad had to stop the political study. The company commander moved Li Shangjin out of the boiler room to fill the position, welcome news to us all, because we knew that Li was a hardworking man with a good heart. When I went to the boiler room to help him move, he was, however, sitting on his bed with one leg under him, looking peeved.

  “I’m here to help you move your stuff, Banzhang.”

  “Help me figure this out first, Banfu.”

  “What do you need to figure out?” I sat down next to him.

  “Is this promotion good or bad for me?”

  “Of course it’s good.”

  He shook his head and sighed. “But I’ve been working in the boiler room for two months and nothing has happened with my party membership.”

  I had no answer for that. “Maybe they need more time to test you.”

  “Maybe.” He nodded, before getting started packing.

  The company was mobilized to participate in the anti-Confucius, anti-Lin Biao campaign. We weren’t well educated enough to know much more about Confucius than his name. As for Lin Biao, all we knew was that he had been a time
bomb by Chairman Mao’s side that could have gone off at any time. We did our best, but higher-ups thought our criticisms did not go far enough, so a propaganda team was sent down to broaden our knowledge through a play. It helped when we saw the old man in the play relating how Lin Biao, as a landlord, had exploited the poor.

  “But that was so careless. Lin was a landlord and yet was able to join the Politburo? How could they be so careless?” Fatty offered his view.

  Chief was emotional and began to cough as he told us how his grandfather had been exploited by a landlord. Keyed up, everyone in the squad started writing pledges.

  Wang Di was the only one in low spirits. He has been doing well since the first day, because he was one of the key cadres, good at painting and writing. But he was too smart for his own good, and stumbled on his way to advancement. Instead of criticizing Lin and Confucius, he put his intelligence to work on a personal scheme, setting his eye on the position of company clerk; being a mere key cadre was not enough for him. He sent the company commander a notebook with a plastic cover, in which he wrote a passage as a “mutual encouragement” with the commander. Instead of “mutually encouraging each other,” the company commander sent the notebook to our platoon leader, who was annoyed that Wang had gone over his head to curry favor with the company commander. Yet the platoon leader didn’t say anything to Wang; he simply gave the notebook to Li Shangjin with the comment, “This soldier has some problems.”

  Wang’s face turned red and then white when Li gave him back his notebook. “It’s just a notebook left over from some time ago.”

  Wang’s second blunder had to do with his “lifestyle.” Among the propaganda team was a female soldier who played a dulcimer. Wearing a small, brimless cap and form-fitting uniform, she was quite pretty, with downy hair on her face and arms. We all had our eye on her, including Wang, who said when we returned from the play, “She looks like an old flame of mine from school.”

  Someone reported his comment and he was summoned by our political instructor, who questioned him. We heard that Wang’s face blanched as he swore he hadn’t said anything that wasn’t permitted, only that she looked like an old classmate. The political instructor let him off the hook by telling him to watch what he said in the future. But something like that was much the same as getting stove dust on your clothes, which stays with you no matter how hard you try. We knew nothing had happened to him and yet we all felt he did have “lifestyle issues.”